


Imprint

by katajainen



Series: Season of Kink 2020: The Unfinished [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (because i say so), Auror Harry Potter, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Draco Malfoy in Glasses, M/M, Not enough plot to fill a thimble, Office Kink, Office Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Snark, Yes i'm pulling OC names out of a hat sue me, not quite hate sex but there's a definite antagonistic vibe going on iykwim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28091010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/pseuds/katajainen
Summary: Someone has been leaving actual, honest-to-god butt prints on Harry's desk at work. The joke is getting old, so he's determined to catch the culprit in the act.The stake-out is an unmitigated success.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Season of Kink 2020: The Unfinished [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082552
Comments: 1
Kudos: 104





	Imprint

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the prompt Desk or wall sex in my 2020 Season of Kink bingo card, but not finished before the deadline. But here it is at last, all burnished up and polished!

Harry looked, blinked and looked again. The mark was still there, distinct against the buffed wooden surface of his desk, right next to the manilla case folder he’d requested from the archives before leaving for lunch: a ghostly, rounded outline not unlike, or exactly alike the imprint left by bare buttocks. _Nice, shapely buttocks, though._

Frowning, he picked up the folder and flicked a quick Scourgify at the desk. This was the third time in five weeks, and the prank was getting old. He went back to the door and poked his head out. ‘Oi– Bristlecone! Did anyone come through here when I was out?’

Bristlecone– or Lucian– was supposed to keep an eye on the front room. At the moment he was blinking owlishly at Harry from behind his dog-eared paperback. Harry counted to ten under his breath.

‘...yeah?’ the lad said. ‘A bloke. From the archives.’

‘What bloke?’

Bristlecone shrugged. ‘Whatshisname. I don’t know. Tall–’ he gestured with the book. ‘Speccy. You know.’

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. What he had done to make the HR saddle him with someone like Lucian Bristlecone was what he would like to know. Or– he might have done everything and exactly nothing; because he had it from Hermione that the young twerp’s mother was doing eldritch flower arranging with the HR chief Arbutus.

‘Never mind,’ he said and retreated back into his office. Now, he couldn’t well go questioning the Archives for tall men with glasses, not without a proper reason. But being the head of Illicit Substances had its perks. He started rifling through his drawers. Now where had he put those observation orbs after that stakeout last year?

~~~

A week passed, then another. Harry put out several archive requests, but his desk remained scrupulously clean, save for tea rings. The observation records showed three different archivists, but none of them was both tall and spectacled. There was a wizard who was a walking dictionary definition of his profession: thin and stooping, with wisps of greying hair sticking out from beneath a maroon velvet beret, and two witches: one tall and black and middle-aged, with a shock of bubblegum pink hair, and the other short and plump and blonde and vaguely familiar-looking. None of them had done anything out of the ordinary.

It was a Thursday afternoon when the mysterious imprint finally reappeared.

‘Got you, you bugger.’ 

Harry took the orb down from the corner shelf and set it on the table, starting the replay with a tap of his wand. The first ten minutes showed a grainy image of his empty office; then the door opened, admitting a tall wizard in the grey-and-white robes of an archivist and steel-rimmed glasses balanced on his pointy nose.

Harry drew a sharp breath. He had known Malfoy had some menial Ministry position, but not that it was in the Archives. Eyes narrowed, he watched Malfoy place two folders on the desk, then turn to the door. The recording was soundless, but Harry recognised the wand flick for Muffliato. Malfoy then walked around the desk and stood with his back to the orb before turning with a grand flourish of archive-grey robes, giving Harry an excellent view of– well, of mostly everything.

Without any apparent hurry, Malfoy then sat himself down on Harry’s desk with his slim thighs parted wide, and his bare skin looked unearthly pale against the age-darkened polished wood. 

His cock looked like it was already half-hard when he took himself in hand. Its length was proportional to his height, and looked to fill his long-fingered grip quite nicely. Harry gulped down a breath, his own hand pressing down on the front of his trousers as Malfoy began to stroke himself.

This was when Harry’s better judgment caught a hold of him and he flicked his wand at the orb, cutting off the playback.

So. Malfoy. Leather creaked as Harry shifted on his seat, adjusting his too-snug trousers. If he wanted, he could take the lift down to the Ministry HR, give the orb to Gibbon Arbutus, and Malfoy would be out on his pert arse within the hour. But as satisfying that might be, it wouldn’t tell him _why,_ and that had suddenly become paramount, because Malfoy was up to _something–_ besides rubbing one off, of that Harry was certain.

And finding out what it was would be so simple; all he needed was a bit of patience.

He watched the rest of the recording later that day in the privacy of his own bedroom, pulling himself to a hard, fast finish. And then he played it again, and again, now that he was able to take in the detail. It was mesmerising, how Malfoy’s eyes, hooded and half-closed to begin with, would squeeze shut at the end, his entire body drawing up into a tight arch, with his head thrown back and the long line of his neck like a bowstring, begging for a touch, for a kiss or a bite.

How meticulously he cleaned his hand and the spatters on his shirt, but let the mark on the desk remain untouched, the ridiculously perfect curve of his arse outlined in sweat and skin oil.

~~~

Harry took to staking out his own office.

Two weeks, ten stale cafeteria sandwiches and as many futile archive requests later he was rewarded with the sight of a familiar pointy face gracing his doorway. He waited until Malfoy had repeated the sequence from the last time, until his fist tightened and he made the first soft gasp.

Harry threw off the Invisibility Cloak. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

Malfoy made a very satisfying startled squeak, but his sharp features quickly rearranged themselves into a self-satisfied smirk. ‘I thought it would be obvious,’ he drawled, and began to pump his hand again. ‘I’m addressing my woeful lack of “the fuck”, as you’ve so eloquently put it.’

‘By coming all the way up here to toss one off? Nope. Not buying.’ Harry came to stand before him, catching a grip on his wrist. ‘And stop that.’

Malfoy lifted one pale eyebrow. ‘Aren’t you easily distracted.’ He shrugged, somehow making it look like squirming, and Harry couldn’t help thinking of his bare, rounded bottom rubbing against the wood of his desk. ‘Well, as it turns out, a proper setting can enhance a fantasy significantly.’

‘You’re… what? Having fantasies about _my office?_ ’ Harry had heard a thing or two about what people got up to in the supply closets, but this was a bit too thick.

'Aren't you the Auror,’ Malfoy smirked. ‘Yes, in fact I do. Especially about your nice fancy desk.’ Malfoy leaned back, legs splayed, daring Harry to look. 'Being buggered on it.’ Somehow his posh accent made the word sound even dirtier, and Harry’s eyes flicked down to his rucked-up white shirt, the curl of a silvery scar disappearing beneath the cloth, a narrow trail of blond hair leading down. ‘If you’d be kind enough to oblige.’ Malfoy bit down softly on the last word, hiding teeth in its round sweetness.

Before Harry knew what he was doing, he’d yanked Malfoy up by his collar. ‘I’ll show you oblige,’ he hissed, inches from his face.

‘Will you now?’ Malfoy’s glasses were sliding down his pointy nose as he licked his lips, a barest flicker of pink tongue, a flash of the moist inside.

It wasn’t a kiss as much as a collision: a tangled wreckage of teeth and tongues, hot and hard and urgent. Harry nipped at Malfoy's lip then grunted around the slick thrust of his tongue as he grappled with robes and belt. Malfoy's hands were cool against his, one smartly unzipping him, the other pushing something into his palm.

Detaching from Malfoy's mouth with a gasp, Harry saw a small tube of lubricant, a Muggle brand. The words escaped without his meaning to: 'You planned this.'

'Do you believe I would have used over two months for something I hadn't planned? They must have given you this post only for the size of your cock–' he squeezed Harry through his briefs.

Harry pulled out his wallet, letting it fall to the floor as soon as he found what he wanted. 

'There are charms for that, you are aware?' said Malfoy, eyeing the condom Harry slapped on top of the Archives manilla folder.

Harry, who didn't care for a wand too near his bits, ignored him. 'Bend over.'

‘Ordering me around, are you?’ But for all the sneer in his voice, Malfoy did as he was told. Framed by the steel-grey cloth of his rucked-up robes above and by the dark-stained wood below, his arse looked very pale, the skin translucent like porcelain. Yet it was warm in Harry’s hand, all smooth skin and the kind of lean muscle that came from frequent flying. He gave it a good squeeze and Malfoy glared at him over his shoulder. ‘Stop faffing around, Potter– we haven’t exactly got all day!’

‘Who’s the bossy one now, eh?’ Malfoy made a very satisfying high gasp as Harry pushed two slicked-up fingers into him, but he didn’t say a word, only spread his legs a little wider. He felt _perfect,_ clinging but not too tight, all hot and smooth and easy, and Harry’s cock ached in its confines of damp cotton. He pumped his hand quickly, then pulled out with a wet, slippery sound to smear the slick all the way around Malfoy’s soft pink hole before thrusting back in, now with a third finger added for good measure.

‘...not some fucking virgin you need to _persuade–_ get on with it or get out!’ But no matter how swotty he might sound, Malfoy was also short of breath, and some part of Harry crowed with glee at this small loss of composure.

‘Can plot for weeks but can’t wait for a minute–’ The crinkling foil square slipped between Harry’s lube-slick fingers, prompting a curse.

‘Give me that,’ Malfoy snapped, holding a hand out. Biting one corner daintily between his teeth, he ripped the pack open and pulled the condom out, holding it with his fingertips like some sort of suspicious bug.

‘You know you’re not supposed to do that, right?’

 _‘Now_ you care about the rules?’ Malfoy snapped back as Harry rolled the – apparently intact – length of thin latex over his cock.

‘Like you’re one to talk–’ Harry lined up and thrust his hips forward, hard and fast and down to the hilt. 

Malfoy made a choked-off sound, like someone had punched him in the gut. And then, in a tight, panting whisper: ‘...yeah. Like that. Yeah.’

Harry bit back his reflexive _sorry_ and grabbed one of Malfoy’s long, lean legs and propped it onto the desk, opening him wider. There was a sound of tearing cloth.

‘Do you mind? Those were expensive!’

‘Watch me not care.’ And Harry drove into him, deeper from this angle, jet-fueled by Malfoy’s bitching, by the glorious, incredible sight of his own cock pistoning in and out between those perfectly splayed half-moon globes of muscle, the slick heat gripping and gripping at him, pulling him deeper. 

The desk drawers rattled and jangled, something came loose and burst open with a sharp _pop_ and a sudden smell of seaweed. Harry’s blood was a rush of thunder in his ears. Malfoy moaned aloud, pinned down by Harry’s hand between his shoulder blades, his face almost invisible between the crook of his elbow and the fall of his hair, pared down to a sliver of flushed cheek, a lax, kiss-bitten mouth and a panting breath fogging the dark glossy wood.

Harry could feel his orgasm building within him, winding tight at the base of his spine, drawing his balls close to his body, making the lamps crackle with spillover magic, but he’d be damned if he gave Malfoy the satisfaction of coming first. Instead, he made himself slow down and leaned forward, close enough to breathe into Malfoy’s ear, pressing him to the desk with his weight.

‘This as good as you thought?’ he whispered. ‘With your legs spread all over my nice desk and your pretty little arse up in the air like you’re some big CEO’s poncy assistant?’

‘Fuck you,’ Malfoy ground out, and Harry caught a flash of silver behind crooked wire-frames.

‘That’s more like your job, isn’t it?’ Malfoy was trying to squirm but Harry had him pinned, his hips slap-slapping hot and dirty against Malfoy’s smooth firm arse. ‘Going to have this polished again,’ he said, ‘make it extra smooth so your cock’ll just slide all over it.’ _God,_ he’d never thought that riling Malfoy up could feel so good. ‘So slick and shiny I’ll have to grab you real tight, or you’ll slip right over the edge like a proper tit.’

‘Potter. Kindly. Shut up.’

‘Make–’

A strong, long-fingered hand yanked at his hair, crushing his lips against Malfoy’s teeth, and Harry gave up every last pretense of holding out, pounding down with a punishing pace that burned at the backs of his thighs. Within moments Malfoy was twisting apart beneath him, gulping air in great ragged gasps, his body gripping and releasing Harry’s cock in tight, maddening bursts. 

Harry clutched hard at the edge of the desk and heard the prolonged rustle-thump of something finally, inevitably sliding onto the floor as the legs skidded with a high, thin noise against the waxed floor. Sharp electric-blue sparks burned on the inside of his closed eyelids as he hurtled to his release with a few more erratic thrusts, coming in sharp, breath-taking jolts of pleasure before collapsing onto the panting body beneath him.

Malfoy gave him longer than he would have thought, maybe a full ten seconds, before starting to complain. ‘Get off me, you lout– you’re heavy!’

‘And you’re all pointy bones.’ In truth, Malfoy’s body felt compact and lean, not overly angular at all, and Harry wouldn’t have minded cuddling up to him a bit longer. Instead, he stood up and pulled the condom off, Vanishing it with a wandless flick of his hand. When he’d got himself sorted out, he saw Malfoy was going over his own shirt and trousers with a wand, smoothing out any wrinkles.

‘Who’s going to see them under your robes?’ Harry scoffed.

‘I will. And you tore a seam here–’ Malfoy pointed at the inside leg of his grey flannel trousers. ‘Though it was an easy fix, you terminally lucky bastard.’ He made it sound like some sort of communicable disease.

‘Happy to oblige,’ Harry shot back and flopped down into his chair with a force that made its aged bearings squeak in complaint.

Malfoy sniffed and pulled his robes closed, running his hands once down the front. ‘Now, unless you wish to advertise, I suggest you clean up this mess.’ He lifted a pointed eyebrow and peered over his glasses at Harry’s desk before flicking his wand at the door. _'Alohomora.'_ The lock clicked. Malfoy snorted. 'Sloppy work, even for you.'

‘Only works from this side,' Harry said absently. 'Security measure.' A pale translucent stain was smeared wide over the dark, glossy wood by the press of Malfoy's body. Most of Harry’s current paperwork seemed to be gone, likely victims to gravity– but if he was entirely honest, he liked the look of the desk better this way.

The lock clicked again, and when Harry looked up, he was alone in the room.

A quick Scourgify got rid of any damning evidence, although not without sacrificing some of the shine. Without bothering to get up, Harry levitated the slew of papers and unreturned Archive folders from the floor, sorting them out mid-air.

Now then, he thought as he stacked the folders on one end of the desk, the loose sheets on the other. He had requested a lot of old files lately. There was sure to be some decent cold cases he could dig into. Maybe enough to warrant going down to the evidence rooms. Which were right across the hall from the Archives. Also most of the stuff you couldn’t take out, so he might have to stay a while down there. Probably come back often. 

And make some more archive requests. But not before he got his desk polished nice and glossy and slick.


End file.
